Home --> Creative Writing --> "One Window"
Ever since I first saw Red Dawn in middle school, I had be obsessed with the idea of what would I do if America was invaded. Any time I write a story of such a situation it makes my cry. It's the same kind of tears I get when I hear about ghost encounters. It's a mix of fear and sorrow. I can't say I would know what to do if America was invaded. Fighting would be futile, of course. We would lose evrything and I don't want to live under our enemies but I also don't want to die... or kill my own pets.
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One window is all I need to see the enemy approach. The invasion has been well underway for only a fortnight. They came from the far east, they arrived through the sea and from the north and the south. I see them on this side of the trees down the hill, the dried up creak like a trench that no one had to dig, it was there waiting for them to ocupy. No one is coming to help. But the land must be defended. A mere .22 can’t do anything at this range. Neither can a 12-gauge. I find myself sudenly resenting my big brother. He promised me he would give me that .223 he was going to buy from his buddy. “A .223 can kill anything,” he said. Now he is not here. My battle buddy who taught me the way of the Marines, and who could have taught me how to get out of here before the enemy came and survive evasion, left me years ago. Now the enemy is upon me. I fight alone. I am terified to the point of tears. I don't want to die. But whether I fight or surender, I am not getting out of this alive.
I hear the bullets wisper before they hit the walls. Some whiz through the glassless window. They come and go, like a whining mosquito, and land in the ceiling. My dogs are with me in this room. They bark and snarl, clawing at the door, which by now looks like a 3-D map of the barren location of some long-forgotten battlefield from their claws. Such ferocious beasts. I despretly want help. But I’m not going to release them to charge at certain death.
The house shakes with a vilent tremble. I hear the wood splitting. Something has hit the house beyond the door. I look out the window to the west. They have five tanks abreast down the driveway. Or rather, one is on the driveway. The others have tread upon the fields, flattening the young corn, like rows of soldiers much too young to die, having been slauttered effortlessly by the enemy.
The enemy marches up the hill. I leap off my small bed and dig into my little box of Molotov cocktails. This is the moment they were mixed for. They stand rank and file, the little flat helmets screwed upon them tightly. But today they must leave their helmets behind. Right now the enemy must be halfway up the hill. I twist off the caps and grab some tissue and paper towels — anything that can keep a strong flame. I stuff them down the mouths of the little glass militants and light them. Now we wait.
I am concealed by the curtain. They are not shooting, but I can see each soldier having his turn at glancing up to the window as he approaches. Now I hear them banging against the doors downstairs. Now. I must chuck the cocktails before the petroleum fumes ignite. Down they go over the porch roof, flames flailing like limbs in the air.
I hear shouts, but the enemies imediately up against the house don’t see the danger. I hear shatters and the gasps of air as the fires inflate. I hear the vile enemy scream in sheer teror and agony. Now they are angry. Now the tankmen are furious. Suddenly I find myself wondering if I am willing to shoot my own pups just so they do not fall in the enemy’s hands.
A fury of shells rips through the house, roaring and screaming their way through. My dogs yip and holler with fear. One is so frightened he forgets to control his bladder. Then the shells hit our room. The older dog is struck dead. Then the floor colapses beneath us. And then the ground floor gives out, and we end up in the basement. I and the younger dog are pierced by shards of glass and wood. He yips and howls with agony. I reach for my brother’s shotgun. If the enemy has made it this far in-country — and I don’t reckon they leave survivors — then my brother is dead. I shoot my dog.
Then they shoot me.
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